Big French beamed delightedly.
“Ay,” he said, “a fine life, but dangerous,” he added quickly, “very dangerous.”
The girl looked at him appraisingly.
“But you are so strong, Master French, what have you to fear from footpads—you’re in more danger from pretty wenches, I warrant,” she said, as she shot a sidelong glance at him.
French reddened and smiled sheepishly; then he suddenly grew grave and his gray eyes regarded her earnestly.
“Wenches? Mistress Sue,” he said, “nay! One wench—that’s all.”
It was Sue’s turn to redden now and she did so very charmingly, and French, noting her confusion, immediately bethought him of his own, and he sat fidgeting, his eyes on the tips of his untanned leather boots.
“I’ll be forth to Tiptree market this week if Black’erchief Dick’s brought aught but rum from Brest,” he said at last, “and if there be aught you may be wanting from thence, Mistress——?” His voice trailed off on the question as he studied his boot-toe attentively.
She smiled as she laid a brown hand on his arm, thereby causing him much nervous disquietude.
“Come back before you go—er—Ezekiel”—Big French started pleasurably at the sound of his Christian name—“and if I have bethought me of aught we need from Tiptree, I will be glad if you will get it for me,” she said.